


We'll Always Have Pinterest

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Samwell, Suzanne wonders what she should have done differently, Suzanne's gonna miss her boy, bitty cooks, college boys drink beer, mentions of bullying and homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7817737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suzanne Bittle thinks about Eric, what she knows and what she doesn't, as she prepares to take him to Samwell for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 2013

**Author's Note:**

> First, this whole piece is an exercise in self-indulgence, since I'm preparing to drive my oldest child to college in Massachusetts. Not that we're dealing with all the same issues, but it's a major transition point that has me wondering how I could have done better by her and how things will change going forward.  
> Second, this could end up with some additional chapters. I'm thinking about adding one for each time Suzanne sends Eric off to school. Let me know if you'd be interested in reading more!
> 
> As always, the characters and world they inhabit belong to Ngozi. This is unbeta'd; please let me know about any mistakes!

Suzanne Bittle rolled her shoulders and blew upwards, trying to dislodge the stray lock of hair that stuck to her forehead.

The spare room was a wreck.

She surveyed all the things that she and Dicky had placed there, in what she had come to think of as the staging area for the “Dicky goes to college” project.

She wasn’t sure all of it would fit in the truck.

 _Why did he have to go so far away?_ she asked herself for the thousandth time.

If he just went up the road to Athens, the way she and Richard had, he could come home to get anything he forgot. Heck, he could come home to do his laundry on the weekends. He wouldn’t even have to think about taking his winter clothes yet.

But there those clothes were, hoodies and jeans and a jacket that she worried would not be warm enough, folded neatly into a large box.

_Why did he want to go somewhere so cold?_

The duffel bag unzipped on the floor held T-shirts, shorts, more jeans, sneakers, a few button- downs, all neatly folded.

There was a box with towels, a small plastic crate with shower supplies, a few unbreakable dishes. Another box held some of Bitty’s own baking equipment: two mixing bowls, some wooden spoons, measuring cups and spoons, a whisk. There was a rolling pin, two pie pans, two cookie sheets. 

_If Bitty stayed closer, he could come home to bake when he wanted. His teammates would never have to know about his baking habit._

Suzanne shook her head. That wouldn’t work, not for her Dicky. She knew, maybe better than anyone, that baking wasn’t just a pleasant pastime for Dicky. It was a distraction -- more than a distraction -- it was an outlet for his nervous energy, a sink where he could watch his fears and self-doubt and worries drain away. Sure, he also baked when he was happy; then, it was a celebration. 

It was the same way for her. She’d baked oatmeal-chocolate chip cookies when Dicky was at his first day of kindergarten. She’d been making snickerdoodles when Dicky went to his first peewee football practice. By the time Dicky started competitive figure skating, they would bake together before the big events; that was when Dicky developed his penchant for pies.

After the Incident with the Utility Closet -- she still thought of it in capital letters -- Dicky had baked enough to stock a PTA fundraiser by himself. Not that the people at that school ever got the opportunity to taste anything from the Bittle kitchen again. She and Coach had to buy the chest freezer that still sat in the garage; they’d been eating (and giving away) baked goods for months.

And now he was going to bring baking equipment to a school where he was supposed to play on the hockey team? She just didn’t know how that was going to work out. Boys -- boys on sports teams -- they didn’t seem to know how to handle someone who wasn’t like them, who didn’t want to be like them.

It wasn’t right, of course it wasn’t, that people bullied those who were different. How anyone could take pleasure in hurting Dicky was beyond her. He was such a bright boy -- bright mind, bright smile. He never wanted to hurt anyone, and apparently, to some people, that made him weak.

Suzanne tried to offer him a haven, a safe place to be himself, whether that was baking a blue-ribbon pie or spinning and leaping his way to a gold medal figure skating performance. When Dicky was doing something he loved, with his music playing and his grin glowing, he was luminous. Beautiful, really, if a mother could say that about her son.

Richard would tell her not to say that, she knew. When Dicky was small, and she called him her pretty boy, Richard would grimace, tell her not to say that. _Boys aren’t supposed to be pretty,_ Richard would say. Not that Dicky _wasn’t_ a pretty child, just that he wasn’t supposed to be.

While she had tried to make a safe place for Dicky, Richard had tried to mold Bitty, to make him fit better into the world where he lived, to _toughen him up._ The first experiment, that football team, well, it hadn’t gone so well. Suzanne knew Richard blamed her for scooping Dicky up and taking him home and putting her foot down and saying, _No more football, not if he doesn’t want to._

 _Gotta be able to take it,_ Richard said. _Show them you aren’t scared. If you want to get along in a man’s world, you can’t show any fear._

 _He didn’t show any fear,_ Suzanne had argued back. _He went out and tried, and they hurt him, and they ridiculed him when he cried. He’s not a man anyway. He’s a little boy._

Richard had harrumphed and walked away from the argument and that, Suzanne thought, was when the relationship between her fine, upstanding husband and her bright and beautiful son had started to break.

Not that it was severed, not at all. It was more like a bridge showing signs of strain, needing to be shored up to keep it from collapsing.

Dicky wasn’t a coward, he wasn’t, Suzanne knew. Richard knew it too. He saw the courage Dicky needed to throw himself into jumps, to get up and try again after he crashed onto the ice and went spinning into the boards. That had to hurt more than getting tackled by an 8-year-old, but he just put his head down, breathed, and got up. He saw the dedication to practice and the skill it took to land those jumps.

It took a different kind of courage to put on Lycra pants and sparkly shirts, and once the competitions got big enough, glitter in his hair and even eyeliner. She didn’t know if Richard ever understood that.

Then when those boys -- Richard’s boys, ones he had coached as children, ones who were working hard to make Richard’s varsity team -- locked Dicky up, it had broken Richard’s heart. Maybe in a man’s world, you couldn’t show any fear, but you also showed respect and behaved with honor. Something had changed in Richard then, she thought. He’d put in his resignation as soon as he found a new job, and when Dicky first said he wanted to quit figure skating, it had been Richard who tried to reassure him that they could find a way to make it work, even with the extra distance. Dicky had held firm, though, insisting that he was done.

It was Richard who’d suggested hockey, and Suzanne was surprised at how well Dicky took to it. It wasn’t like the hockey she watched on TV -- in the Stanley Cup final two months ago, that one player, hit in the face and lying on the ice bleeding, and then getting up and playing as soon as the stitches were in? -- and Dicky, quite frankly, was at a whole different level of skating than his teammates. And his opponents, for that matter.

 _Better remind Dicky to make sure his gear’s in order,_ she reminded herself. His gear lived in the garage. She snorted. “Lived” might be entirely too accurate; that stuff was disgusting. 

Hockey had brought Dicky some new friends, and, she knew, it was how he ended up going to Samwell.

It was December when he Dicky had come into the kitchen late -- after 10 o’clock, when he knew Richard would be in bed. He put his laptop on the table, open to Samwell’s website for prospective students, and said, “They have a hockey team.”

She couldn’t deny that the pictures were pretty, with the red brick buildings and colorful trees and the students who, well, some of them looked like her Dicky. Or at least, they didn’t all look the same, and she thought Dicky could see himself there.

“It’s kind of expensive, Mama, but maybe I could get a scholarship?” Dicky said.

“Can’t hurt to try,” she said. “Talk to your coaches and see what you need to do.”

Richard didn’t have a lot of hope. _He plays in a rec league,_ Richard said. _This is a Division I hockey program._

But it turned out Richard knew someone at UGA who knew someone at Boston College who knew someone at Samwell, and he used that to get someone at Samwell to at least take a look at Dicky.

Three months later, Dicky had his acceptance at Samwell and a letter telling him he had an athletic scholarship. It was partial, but enough. Dicky jumped up and down, and Suzanne started to worry.

Tomorrow morning, they would load all of Dicky’s things in the truck, along with the folder with Dicky’s admission information and immunization records and his brand-new passport (“Why do I need a passport, Mama?” “Because you might want to travel, maybe go to Canada, Besides, it’s the best form of identification this country offers.”)

They’d stay over somewhere in northern Virginia, and by the end of the next day, she’d be leaving Dicky in his residence hall. She hoped there would be time to take him to a grocery store and buy some staples. Maybe he could bake before the practices started? Dicky could always find someone to eat his food. Just please not the hockey team. Dicky needed this to work for him, and it might be better if he didn’t introduce himself in a way that would make them think …

Suzanne shook herself. Best not to even think that. She knew what people said about Dicky, why the boys had locked him in that closet. She had eyes; she knew why someone might think that. Good Lord, she knew better than most. She had seen his 12-year-old eyes drawn to the boys at the skating rink, while he never looked at the girls in their teeny skirts with anything but friendly affection. She knew he didn't watch those James Bond films for the plots, or even for the action. 

But he'd gotten better at hiding it over the years, she thought. Now he presented almost everybody with a uniformly friendly, welcoming face, hiding what he was really thinking and feeling behind a stream of pleasant chatter. He hardly touched anyone, she'd noticed, beyond laying a comforting hand on a forearm here or clapping a male friend on the back. She supposed she could count herself lucky that he would still hug her and kiss her cheek, but she wondered how she had missed that change in him.

She wondered if it would be different if they could talk about these things. If you could somehow ask your son if he … preferred men. It was fine with her if he did, and with Richard too. After all, they were both pretty sure they understood the situation, and they still loved Dicky to bits. But everything she’d read advised parents to not come out and ask, to wait for the child -- or grown child, as the case may be -- to be ready to talk about it. What if he never was? At least not to her? He would have his own life somewhere else, and wherever it was, she hoped he was happy, hoped he found someone to love, whoever it might be. Dicky had so much love to give; he deserved someone who would give it all back.

Suzanne closed the door to the spare room and poured herself a glass of sweet tea. She took it out to the porch while she went over her mental checklist. Extra-long sheets and mattress pad, new comforter, towels. First aid kit, tool kit, poster tape. She'd hidden an extra charger for his phone in the side pocket of his duffel because he was always losing them.

Dicky walked out onto the driveway from the garage, coming to sit on the step when he saw her on the porch.

“All your hockey stuff in order?” she asked. “You all ready?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Dicky said. “Ready as I'll ever be.”

“Well, we'd best get to bed early tonight,” she said. “We need to leave bright and early. Things sure will be quiet here without you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dicky said. “I'm gonna miss you. What if I can't do this, Mama?”

“Do what? Play hockey there?”

“That, but everything else, too,” Dicky said. “What if the classes are too hard? What if the people there don’t like me? What if I'm too … different?”

“Eric Richard Bittle, you listen to me,” Suzanne said. “You are an incredibly strong, incredibly brave young man. I'm not going to say that everyone will appreciate that about you, but I do, and your father does. And for all that the weather is different and they talk with that strange accent, people at Samwell will see that. You'll make them see it.”

She took a breath and a considering look at her son, all impossibly long limbs, now with visible muscles in his shoulders and arms. His jaw was starting to square off, and his hair had darkened from the near white-blond it had been when he was a child to a light honey gold. Her little boy truly was a young man.

“Not everyone will see it,” she said. “But some of them will. And those will be the friends you make that you will always have. And your father and I will always be here for you too, no matter what.”

Dicky was looking at her with concern on his face.

“Oh, Mama, you’re not really that really worried about me, are you?”

“I’ll worry about you because I’m your mother, and that’s what mothers do,” Suzanne said. “But I have all the confidence in the world that you’re going to do fine. Better than fine. I am gonna miss you, though.”

“Aw, Mama. We’ll always have Pinterest.”


	2. August 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suzanne Bittle spends the day at the Haus after driving Bitty up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I couldn't resist. At least one more chapter after this, I think.

August 2014

Suzanne Bittle closed the door of her room at the Hampton Inn in Samwell behind her and flopped on the bed like she did when she was a teenager.

Those boys would be death of her.

She giggled. Not really. But they probably thought so.

Lord, college boys never changed. The young men who lived in the Haus -- and she had learned to think of it that way, with a capital H and German spelling -- reminded her of nothing so much as Richard’s football team when they were in college, with the hooting and hollering and carrying on.

It was certainly not the kind of place she ever thought Dicky would live.

She and Dicky had driven into Samwell the evening before, and Dicky had asked her to drive to the hockey Haus first to unload his things before she checked in at the hotel. He planned to bring his things in and sleep in his new room for the first time that night. The next morning, she would pick him up to go grocery shopping and then spend the rest of the day helping him clean the kitchen.

That’s what she had done, and good Lord, was she tired now. Her back ached and her knees were sore and her hands were red from washing.

She thought about putting on her swimsuit and going down to the hot tub. But who knew who had done what in a hotel hot tub? She wrinkled her nose. Better go to the bar downstairs, get a glass of wine, and come up and take a hot bath. That would do it. Chances were, Dicky -- Bitty, the others called him -- was relaxing with a beer himself.

Did he really think she’d be shocked to find beer in what was essentially a frat house? She knew why he wanted to be dropped off the night before she set foot in the house. He wanted a chance to do a little, say, pre-cleaning. Which became entirely obvious when those two boys came in and were surprised to find their beer had been moved out of the refrigerator in the kitchen to another one in the basement.

She hoped the beer was the worst of it. Well, the beer and the mildew that was growing by the kitchen sink.

She and Dicky had scrubbed and sanitized the sink, the work surfaces, the inside of the fridge (the one in the kitchen). They had scrubbed the floor and wiped down the walls, washed the windows and hung new curtains. Dicky had even climbed up to take the glass cover off the light fixture and cleaned it. She had thought they would need to clean the oven, but it hadn’t been used much over the summer. The last person to bake in it probably had been Dicky, and he knew better than to leave it dirty.

By the time they were done, even Suzanne had to admit the kitchen was safe environment for handling food. Which was good, because the first thing Dicky did was started a pie. The next thing he did, once the pie was in the oven, was start supper.

“Dicky, what’s the rush?” Suzanne had asked, resting at the kitchen table with a glass of the sweet tea she and Dicky had made that morning. “We can go out and grab dinner tonight. I’ll be happy to take your friends if you like.”

“No, Mama, that’s all right,” Dicky said, seasoning the chicken pieces he had just cut up. “There’re more people coming this afternoon, so it’d be too many people. Besides, we have to give Jack his birthday pie.”

“That’s why the pie today? For Jack Zimmermann’s birthday?” Suzanne asked. “Are his parents dropping him off?”

“I doubt it, Mama,” Dicky said. “Jack’s 24 and he’s used to traveling around by himself.”

“So you and Jack are friendly now?” she was asking, when the tall blond boy -- Adam? -- called from the living room, “Bitty! Bits, you here? We’re gonna start early on finding you a --”

Dicky had been out of his chair faster than a jackrabbit, yelling back, “Holster, my mama’s still here” as he headed out of the room.

Suzanne let herself wonder what Adam was trying to find for Dicky until Dicky returned, Adam following with his laptop tucked under his arm.

“Hello, Mrs. Bittle,” he said with a smile that was a little too charming. “How do you like the hockey Haus?”

“I suppose it’s all right,” Suzanne said. “I am glad that Di -- Eric -- has all you boys around. I’ve heard so much about you all. You’re good friends to him.”

Adam’s smile widened and became something more genuine. “Bits? He’s the best, Mrs. Bittle. I can’t tell you how happy we are that he’s feeling better. We’ll get him cleared and on the ice in no time.”

“Well, I do want y’all to be careful --”

Dicky had interrupted at that point, “Shitty and Jack just pulled up.” He headed out the door to meet them, and when he came back, he was carrying a case of beer under one arm, his face turning pink. Really, did he not think she knew they drank beer? They should have seen how much beer Richard and his teammates got through.

By this time, the other tall boy, the one with the African last name -- Justin something with an O? Or an R? -- had come in. “Bits, if you bring the beer in is it allowed in the fridge?”

“Hush, you,” Dicky told him, shooting a surreptitious glance at Suzanne. “There’s a whole shelf for beer. Just not the whole fridge.”

“What’s that about about the fridge?” said the young man she chose to call Mr. Crappy. He was unkempt but clean, she noticed, and he was smiling at Dicky.

“Just that there has to be room for food,” Dicky said, opening the door and displaying vegetables, fruit, the chicken in stainless steel bowls, rows of condiments and what most people might think was an unreasonable amount of butter.

“Lot of butter there, Bittle,” said Jack, following Mr. Crappy in. “How much of that do you intend to use?”

“Not as much as Ransom and Holster use sriracha,” Dicky said. “Which now has this shelf of this cabinet” -- he opened a cabinet door and gestured like Vanna White -- “not all of every cabinet.”

“Jack! Bring that beautiful hockey butt here!” Adam and the other boy yelled and tackled him. Mr. Crappy joined in, while Dicky looked on fondly. He let it go on for a few moments before saying, “All right, guys, if you have to wrestle, take it out of the kitchen.”

The other boys pulled themselves apart, and Jack, his cheeks pink, patted Dicky on the shoulder and said, “Sorry about that, Bittle. We’re not used to the kitchen being used for actual food preparation.”

The others all gathered around Dicky too, and Suzanne realized just how much smaller he was than the rest of the boys. He also was dressed differently, in shorter shorts and a tank top, the kind of clothes he’d wear to help her around the house at home, but never out or in front of his friends. She wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that he acted like these boys were family, although he didn’t seem to engage in they kind of rough housing they did. Or the fact that they all seemed to know and accept that Dicky’s boundaries were different, without anyone making a big deal of it. She supposed it meant that they really were like family to him, and if that was the case, they were family to her, too. She supposed that meant they had noticed that he was, well, probably gay, but it seemed fine. That was good.

“Is this everyone?” Dicky asked. “Because I’m making supper for y’all. And there’s a pie for Jack’s birthday.”

“I think Lardo’s going to come by,” Shitty said. “She was checking into her residence hall today.”

“All right, she can help me when she gets here. Can the rest of you carry the table outside and make sure there are enough chairs and plates and forks and things? I gotta fry this chicken, and I’m gonna make some biscuits and mashed potatoes.”

Then Jack chimed in and offered to peel potatoes.

“Uh, you don’t have to do that, Jack,” Dicky said. “It’s your birthday dinner, and you just got here.”

“Bittle, I’m moving back into my old room,” Jack said. “It’s fine. It’s not like there’s a lot to do. Besides, your mother’s a guest. We can’t make her do it.”

“All right, all right,” Dicky said. “When they’re peeled and cut, rinse them in this colander and put them in this pot, all right?

The supper had been good: Dicky’s delicately spiced chicken, creamy mashed potatoes with Suzanne’s gravy, a couple of salads -- one with a little bit of an exotic Asian flavor, made with the help of the girl they called Lardo. Suzanne didn’t understand why she put up with that, but she didn’t seem to mind. 

When they had all carried their plates in the kitchen and the lightning bugs were winking in the dusk, Dicky brought out an apple pie glazed with maple sugar. It wasn’t a recipe Suzanne had tried before, but she had to admit it was good. Maybe he would put it on Pinterest. Although she wasn’t sure about the combination of apple pie and beer, and she was pretty sure nearly all of that case Dicky had carried in was gone.

If Dicky's voice was a little breathless when he presented the pie and said, "Happy birthday, Mr. Zimmermann," well, maybe no one else noticed.

She had the feeling that once she left, the beer from the basement would make its reappearance.

After the boys assured her that they would handle the dishes -- “We won’t let Bitty here touch them, promise, Mrs. Bittle!” -- she had driven away, to the sound of Mr. Crappy shouting from the porch, “Fuck the LAX bros!”

It wasn’t the kind of place she ever thought Dicky would live, but after spending a day there, she couldn’t imagine a much better place for him. She sipped her wine and ran her bath. Tomorrow, when it was time to start the drive south, she would be far more comfortable than she had been the year before.

Before getting into the tub, she called Richard.

“You wouldn’t believe the boys Dicky is going to live with,” she said. “Well, maybe you would.”


	3. August 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suzanne drops Bitty off at the airport.

Suzanne jingled her car keys and called up the stairs.

“You ready, Dicky? I don’t want cut it too close.”

“On my way,” Dicky called from his room. “Be right there.”

Suzanne stood at the bottom of the stairs and waited. 

“Boy’s never on time for anything,” Richard grumbled from the table, where he was sipping a second cup of coffee, enjoying his last break of the summer before two-a-day football practices began. 

“I don’t know about that,” Suzanne said. “I can’t remember him ever burning a pie.”

Richard harrumphed, but it was a good-natured kind of sound, and Suzanne was giggling when Dicky bounced down the stairs, knapsack on his back and duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His hockey bag was still in the garage.

“That all you have?” she asked, remember the truckload they brought when he first moved to Samwell. It had nail clippers and razors (as though Dicky needed them) and a couple of sets of flatware and a flashlight somewhere in those boxes. Suzanne idly wondered what had happened to all that. Was it all in the hockey Haus somewhere?

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Well, this and my hockey gear. Everything else is still at the Haus.”

“All right then,” she said. “We’d best be going.”

Dicky put his bags -- and his hockey gear -- in the trunk before sliding into the passenger seat for the trip to Hartsfield. He put on a Top 40 station, one they could sort of agree on, and and hummed along as they passed out of Madison, driving through the red dirt fields towards Atlanta.

“Looking forward to this year?” she asked. “Going to get to take more classes in your major?”

Dicky didn’t answer for a moment, his eyes looking absently out the window at something that was most assuredly not there. It was a look Suzanne had seen on Dicky often this summer, even more frequently since Jack Zimmermann had come to stay over the Fourth of July. 

“What?” The question in her tone must have broken through his daydream. “Oh. Yes, I am looking forward to it. I’ve got a lot of the requirements out of the way. And I can’t wait to see the team. It sure will be different with Ransom and Holster as captains. Jack was captain the whole time I was there. It sure will be different with Chowder across the hall.”

“Chowder?”

“Uh, Chris Chow? The goalie? He’ll be a sophomore.”

“You like him, don’t you? I remember you talking about him.”

“Well, of course I like him, Mama,” Dicky said. “He’s, like, my sweet summer child. Did I tell you he asked me to make lunch so he could introduce me to his girlfriend? They’re adorable. Just a double ray of sunshine. … But nothing like Jack.” 

Suzanne did not comment on the fact that Dicky apparently thought he’d be living across the hall from the goalie and his girlfriend.

“How is Jack? Have you talked to him since he went back to Providence?” Suzanne winced internally. That was definitely fishing for information. With the way Dicky’s phone was glued to his hand, there probably wasn’t anybody he knew that he hadn’t talked to. Or texted with, she supposed. And if he thought it escaped her notice that he was running upstairs to his room and shutting the door hours earlier than he usually went to bed, well, he had severely underestimated his mother’s observational skills.

“‘Course, Mama,” Dicky said. “Didn’t I mention he was going to pick me up at the airport? I’m heading back early so the school shuttle won’t be running, and he said it was the least he could do after he visited.”

“Well, that’s nice then,” Suzanne said. “He’s such a polite young man, not like you hear about young people these days. But all your friends were very kind to me last summer. Although Mr. Crappy …”

“Yeah, he probably should remember to wear more clothes when we have visitors,” Dicky agreed. “But I don’t think he meant to offend.”

“I’m sure he didn’t, Dicky,” Suzanne assured him. “But I could never see Jack behaving like that. His parents raised him well.”

Dicky snorted.

“I think parents can take some credit when their children turn out well,” Suzanne persisted. “I certainly do.”

“Mama!” 

She glanced away from the road to see the pink tinge in his cheeks.

“I mean it, Dicky, of course I’m proud of you,” Suzanne said. “Any mother would be. And I’m sure Jack’s mother and father are proud of him.”

“Well, of course they are,” Dicky said.

“Not because he’s a professional hockey player,” Suzanne clarified. “Because of his character.”

“That’s what I meant, too,” Dicky said, and turned to look out the window again, cutting off the conversation as the airport sprawl began to embrace the highway.

She had simply pulled up to the curb by departures and Dicky leaned over to kiss her goodbye before pulling his bags from the trunk.

“Love you, Mama,” he said. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Your father and I love you, too,” Suzanne said. “We’ll miss you. Remember to check the Pinterest board -- Auntie Brenda was going to give me that tart recipe.”

“Will do,” Dicky said. “I’ll text when I get there.”

Suzanne put the car in drive and pulled back into traffic. She hoped she’d made it clear that she liked Jack, liked him as Dicky’s friend and would like him as Dicky’s … boyfriend. That still didn’t sound right to her; she’d never thought he’d grow up to have a boyfriend, but she could get used to it. Jack was good for him. Jack had helped him keep his place on the hockey team, Jack had called when he was hurt, Jack had smiled at him with that look in his eyes when he arrived in July. Dicky had blushed from nothing but a smile and grinned back, and Suzanne thought it was the first time she’d seen him that happy in years. Yes, she could get used to this.

By the time Jack sat down at the kitchen table for his first slice of pie, Suzanne was sure that Dicky was not suffering from an unrequited crush. They had taken way too long when they went upstairs to put Jack’s bags away, and Dicky’s blush had gotten deeper instead of fading. Really, did these young people think their elders never snuck away to steal a kiss? For Pete’s sake, she and Richard had done their share of sneaking around when Dicky was a teenager.

She wasn’t sure if Richard had picked up on it, but when Suzanne had pronounced herself exhausted at 10 p.m. July 3, Richard had dutifully followed her upstairs, giving the air bed in Dicky’s room the side-eye as he passed the open door.

As he sat down on the bed to take off his shoes, he said, “At least neither of them can get pregnant.”

And for a moment Suzanne had wondered whether Dicky had not told her about him and Jack just because he thought they wouldn’t be allowed to share a room if his parents knew they were involved.

Then she was ashamed of thinking about herself. Her son was in his first romantic relationship -- at least the first one so significant she couldn’t help but know about it. She should be thinking about what he needed, not wondering why he wasn’t confiding in her. 

And if Jack picked Dicky up from the airport and took him to Providence instead of Samwell for the night, well, it would be nice if Dicky trusted her enough to share where he would be, but he was an adult and could go where he pleased. She only hoped it turned out well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I write ahead to what summer 2016 might be like? Thoughts?


	4. August 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty visits home before going back to Samwell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really the last chapter. I have to say, I've really come to like Mama Bittle!

August 2016

Suzanne pulled into the cell phone lot at Atlanta Hartsfield and put the car in park. She called up the text conversation with Dicky to check the time his flight was supposed to land; she should have about 20 minutes.

She would need that time to come to terms with what she thought was about to happen.

The last text Dicky had sent -- the one just before the one saying, “I have to turn my phone off now; I’ll text you when we land” -- said, “Sorry for the short warning, but Jack is coming with me. I have something I need to talk to you about.”

Her first reaction, if she was honest, was a tiny bit of resentment. She was ashamed of it, she really was, but the fact of the matter was she hadn’t seen Dicky since he came home for a weekend at the beginning of summer. He had just stopped in to visit, he said, before he headed to Providence, where he had gotten an incredible internship in the public relations department for Hasbro Children’s Hospital, helping run their social media accounts and learning more about how to parlay his expertise into a career.

It was only three days a week, he’d said, but it _was_ paid, and paid internships were about as rare as hen’s teeth. And Jack had said he could move in with him, so he wouldn’t have to pay rent, and wasn’t that so generous?

At the time, Suzanne had not voiced her opinion that Bitty’s decision not to spend the summer in Madison had more to do with Jack than any internship. She had only asked whether he would make enough money to last the school year, even without paying rent, if he was only working three days a week.

“I’ll try to find something else part-time, Mama,” he’d promised, looking abashed, and Suzanne’s heart broke a little. She should have been happy, she knew, happy that he was happy, but this felt so much like the final step of moving away from her. This year, he stayed in Providence and was visiting Madison. Chances were, he’d never again consider her house his home, and was it so wrong to want a little acknowledgment of such a massive change?

Well, he had found another job, in a bakery of all things, working the counter and helping with baking. He even set up a Twitter account for the shop when he wasn’t busy. Every time she talked to him that summer, he sounded happy and confident, and she couldn’t help but smile. But she missed him all the same.

Then Dicky promised to come for another visit, a week this time, before he had to go back to school. Suzanne had been looking forward to days of baking and gossiping and visiting Moomaw. This was the week that was going to make up for her summer without Dicky.

And then, just before stepping on the plane, he texted that his _boyfriend,_ of all people, was coming too. But he didn’t say his boyfriend, because he hadn’t even acknowledged to her that he was gay or in a relationship. Was she in for a week of Dicky and Jack sneaking around, trying to find ways to be alone?

It had been cute last summer, but now she wanted some honesty, if only it meant that they wouldn’t try to hide away from her.

Maybe she was out of sorts because she had seen less of Dicky than ever this year, with him spending not only the summer, but half of Christmas break in Providence. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been available to talk as much. They had their weekly Skype sessions, but there were fewer spur-of-the-moment calls to talk through a tricky recipe or share the news about Aunt Melanie.

Plus, sometimes when she did talk to Dicky, he looked tired and drawn, like something was weighing on him. When she asked about it, he deflected. _I’m fine, Mama. Just tired, Mama. Hockey and my classes have me going like crazy_.

That was likely true, she knew, but it had been equally true in past years, and he didn’t use it as an excuse for looking like there was a problem he just couldn’t quite get his arms around.

If only Dicky got off that plane and walked up and said _Mama, Jack is my boyfriend._ Then, this year when she called, she could ask in detail how Jack was and not have to pretend to be surprised if Dicky mentioned he’d spoken to him. She could sympathize about the trials of being in a long-distance relationship. Even if the distance wasn’t very long, Jack and Dicky’s schedules wouldn’t permit them to spend much time together. And she was pretty sure hardly anybody knew they were together, so that had to be a burden too.

Well, if Dicky didn’t come right out and tell her, Suzanne decided, she would simply act like he had, like it was -- what was that term, a _fait accompli._ She’d see where that got her.

So when Dicky texted and Suzanne pulled around to the terminal and Dicky and Jack approached the car, she gave Dicky a big hug and then gave a hug to Jack. When Jack apologized for horning in on Dicky’s visit, she said, “Of course not, honey. You’re always welcome here.”

She had felt some of the resentment thaw at Jack’s apology, but not enough to stop what she was doing.

Driving back, she said, “I didn’t get the air mattress out because I didn’t know Jack was coming before I left,” she said. “But maybe you won’t be wanting it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dicky said, turning from pink to crimson. “I mean, no, ma’am. I mean, I can get it from the basement when we get home.”

“And I haven’t got a thing baked,” Suzanne continued. “I thought Dicky and I could spend this afternoon baking together. But I can handle it if you two have other plans.”

“No, Mrs. Bittle -- Suzanne,” Jack said. “That sounds like fun. I’ll do my best to help, but Bitty says I usually help most just by watching.”

“And Dicky, you said you had something to talk about?” Suzanne said.

“When we get home, Mama,” he said. “There’s no hurry.” Of course there’s a hurry, Suzanne thought. I don’t want to wait any more.

 

When they got home, both boys -- young men -- went upstairs to put their bags in Dicky’s room. Dicky came down first.

“Are you and Jack ready for lunch?” she said. 

“Um, maybe in a few minutes?” Dicky said. “Jack’s going to grab a shower.”

“All right,” Suzanne said, drawing a chair back from the table and sitting down, arranging her face and her body language to communicate that she was ready for whatever Dicky had to say.

Dicky sat opposite her, then got up and pulled the pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge. He poured glasses for both of them before sitting again and folding his hands on the table in front of him. “The thing is, Mama …” He unfolded his hands and started again.

“The thing is, I’m gay.”

He breathed in, then breathed out, then looked at his hands before looking up.

“That’s all?” Suzanne said, smiling and feeling her eyes prick with tears at the same time..

“Well, isn’t it enough?” he said.

“Maybe it’s enough,” Suzanne said. “But I don’t think that’s all.”

“I’m in a relationship? With Jack?” Dicky sounded confused. “Mama, you don’t seem very surprised, but are you OK?”

Suzanne reached across the table and took Dicky’s hands in yours.

“Of course I’m OK,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for, well, years now, for you to tell me that. About being gay, I mean. And it was as plain as the nose on your face how you and Jack felt about each other last summer.”

Now Dicky looked alarmed. “Really? Because nobody was supposed to know.”

“Oh, honey, I don’t think everybody would see it,” she said. “But I’ve known you since the day you born, before that even. I have never seen you give a girl the eye. I did see you look at more than a few boys a little longer than maybe you would otherwise, and the way you look at Jack, and the way he looks at you, well …”

“I honestly didn’t know how you’d take it, Mama,” Dicky said. “I didn’t want to make you upset or sad.”

“The only thing that made me sad, sugar, was that you didn’t tell me,” Suzanne said. “It made me feel like you didn’t trust me to handle that in a way that wouldn’t hurt you, and I never want to hurt you.”

“I’m sorry you felt like that,” Dicky said. “I mean, it wasn’t that I thought you wouldn’t love me. I just was afraid you’d feel bad that I turned out so wrong.”

“No, Dicky, you didn’t turn out wrong at all,” she said. “You turned out exactly right.”

“I know that, but there’s a fair few people around here who wouldn’t agree,” Dicky said. “And … I don’t want to be mean, but it’s not like you ever tell them you don’t see it their way.”

Suzanne sat back for a moment, and realized her son was right, she hadn’t said much, and she could see how he might take her silence as agreement.

“Dicky, have you ever heard me say things like that?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“No, because I don’t believe them,” she said. “And maybe I should have spoken up more. It just seemed kind of pointless, because I knew they wouldn’t change their minds, and I’d have started an argument over nothing. But now that you told me, I can see how it looked to you.”

They were still holding hands across the table when Jack came into the kitchen.

“Everything all right?” he asked. 

“Yes, Jack,” Dicky said. “You were right. She had it all figured out. We could have done this over Skype, or at least, you didn’t need to come to give me moral support.”

“Dicky, don’t say that!” Suzanne said. “I’m so glad you’re here. And I meant what I said; Jack is welcome any time, especially now that we can all acknowledge he’s your boyfriend.”

“About that, Suzanne,” Jack said, glancing at Bitty. “We’re still trying to keep it really quiet. The only other people who know are my parents and a couple of people in the Falcs management that we had to tell just so they could make a plan for if it came out. And maybe a couple of people from our teams have figured it out, but no one has asked outright, so they don’t know for sure. Our plan this fall is to tell our respective teams, though, because it’s hard enough to see each other without trying to make sure that the people we see every day don’t catch on.”

“But you’re going to tell your daddy, right?” Suzanne said. “He deserves to hear it from you.”

“Does he already know too?” Dicky asked. 

“I’m pretty sure he does,” Suzanne said.

Dicky shrugged. “I guess it won’t be that bad.”

“Bad?” Suzanne said. “He’ll be pleased as punch to have a professional athlete in the family.”

Dicky opened his mouth to protest and Suzanne realized what she said. 

“Well, almost,” she said. “So what do you think we should make? I was wondering if we could use that cranberry tart recipe you posted but modify it to use blueberries?”

Bitty was pulling up the recipe on his phone.

“Probably. We’d need to use less sugar, though,” he said. “What do you think, Mama? If it works, we could put it on Pinterest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please let me know if you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlookfrightened)!


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